Cat With a Clue Read Online Free Page B

you can, but that won’t get all of it. Try putting a little liquid dishwashing soap into a spray bottle with warm water for what the vacuum doesn’t pick up.”
    â€œThanks so much,” I said, but I wasn’t sure my sarcasm showed enough, because Inwood said, “You’re welcome,” and then, “Deputy Wolverson will notify you when the victim’s family has been contacted. At thatpoint you can give out Ms. Vennard’s name. I’ll call if I have any questions.”
    He strode off. Ash, who’d been standing nearby, sent me a smile that made me go a little mushy inside, then followed him.
    When they were gone, I was the only one left in the library. This wasn’t unusual either early in the morning or late at night, but I couldn’t think of a circumstance in which I’d ever been the only person in the library at one in the afternoon.
    It was just too weird for words.
    I wandered out to the reference desk, picked up the phone to call our maintenance guy, then put the receiver down. Gareth didn’t start work for a few hours. If I asked him to come in now, he would, but it would result in overtime pay, and that particular part of the budget was tight after the recent repairs and cleanup expenses from a big storm.
    Happily married and older than me by well over a decade, Gareth was a solidly good guy. We’d become friends soon after I’d moved to Chilson when, during a summer festival, we’d looked up from the opposite ends of a picnic table to see the other eating an identical, horribly delicious junk-food dinner of corn dogs, elephant ears, and cotton candy.
    We’d made a pact not to tell a soul—especially Gareth’s nutritionally minded wife and my budding restaurateur of a best friend—and ever since, we’d traded recommendations for restaurants with the best fried food.
    So, budget in mind, instead of Gareth, I called Holly Terpening, one of the library’s clerks and my good friend. As I waited for her to pick up, I couldn’t help myself; I glanced over to where I’d found poor Andrea.
    â€œOh no,” I breathed.
    â€œMinnie?” Holly asked. “Is that you? Are you okay?”
    â€œFine. Sorry. It’s just . . . I’ve been given the all clear to open the building, so come on in. And, Holly?” I tried not to wince at the vast amounts of fine black powder that covered the bookshelves. “If you have a couple of spare spray bottles, please bring them.”
    I made three similar phone calls, then, before anyone else arrived, I jogged upstairs to Stephen’s former office for the mat he’d used for his winter boots. Its black rubber didn’t exactly match the medium gray tweediness of the downstairs carpeting, but it would cover that stomach-lurching dark red stain until I could get some carpet guys in.
    Half an hour later, Holly, Donna, Kelsey, and I had managed to clean up the worst of the powdery mess. Josh, our IT guy, another good friend of mine, had volunteered to work the front desk while the women did the dirty work.
    â€œI’m not very good at cleaning,” he said, sidling away.
    â€œJust like a man,” Kelsey called after him.
    â€œJust trying to get to the coffeemaker before you do,” he said, and he slid out of sight.
    â€œHe has a point,” Holly said, and Donna and I agreed. Kelsey had a tendency to make coffee strong enough to rule the world and, though I always made the first pot of the morning, every one after that was a race of sorts.
    â€œSomeday,” the thirtyish Kelsey said airily, “you young things will grow to appreciate the virtues of real coffee.”
    Donna, a seventy-year-old marathoner and snowshoer, said, “Real coffee? The only good coffee is coffee that’s laden with cream and sugar.” Kelsey gave what didn’t appear to be a mock shudder, and we all laughed.
    The chatter went on as the cleaning